In Ⓐemendation a little whileⒶemendation all interest was taken up in stretching our necks and watching for the “pony-rider”—the fleet messenger who sped across the continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters nineteen hundred miles in eight daysⒺexplanatory note! Think of that for perishable horse and human flesh and blood to do! The pony-rider was usually a little bit of a man, brim fullⒶemendation of spirit and endurance. No matter what time of the day or night his watch came on, and no matter whether it was winter or summer, raining, snowing, hailing, or sleeting, or whether his “beat” was a level straight road or a crazy trail over mountain crags and precipices, or whether it led through peaceful regionsⒶemendation or regions that swarmed with hostile Indians, he must be always ready to leap into the saddle and be off like the wind! There was no idling-time for a pony-rider on duty. He rode fifty miles without stopping, by daylightⒶemendation, moonlight, starlight, or through the blackness of darknessⒺexplanatory note—Ⓐemendation just as it happened. He rode a splendid horseⒶemendation that was born for a racerⒶemendation and fed and lodged like a gentleman;Ⓐemendation kept him at his utmost speed for ten miles, and then, as he came crashing up to the station where stood two menⒶemendation holding fast a fresh, impatient steed, the transfer of rider and mail-bag was made in the twinkling of an eye, and away flew the eager pairⒶemendation and were out of sight before the spectator could get hardly the ghost of a look. Both rider and horse went “flying light.” The rider’s dress was thinⒶemendation and fitted close; he wore a “roundaboutⒶemendation” and a skull-cap, and tucked his pantaloons into his boot-topsⒶemendation like a race-rider. He carried no arms—he carried nothing that was not absolutely necessary,Ⓐemendation for even the postage on his literary freight was worth two dollars an ounce Ⓐtextual note Ⓔexplanatory note Ⓐemendation. He got but little frivolous correspondence to carry—Ⓐemendation his bag had business letters in it, mostly. His horse was stripped of all unnecessary weight, too. He wore a little wafer of a [begin page 51] racing-saddle, and no visible blanket. He wore light shoes, or none at all. The little flat mail-pocketsⒶemendation strapped under the rider’s thighsⒶemendation would each hold about the bulk of a child’s primer. They held many and many an important business chapter and newspaper letter, but these were written on paper as airy and thin as gold-leaf, nearly, and thus bulk and weight were economized. The stage-coachⒶemendation traveledⒶemendation about a hundred to a hundred and twenty-five miles

X

“here he comes!”Ⓐemendation

We had had a consuming desire, from the beginning, to see a pony-rider, butⒶemendation somehow or otherⒶemendation all that passed usⒶemendation and all that met usⒶemendation managed to streak by in the night, and so we heard only a whiz and a hail, and the swift phantom of the desert was goneⒶemendation before we could get our heads out of the windows. But now we were expecting one along every moment, and would see him in broad daylight. Presently the driver exclaims:

“ Here he comes Ⓐemendation!”

Every neck is stretched further, and every eye strained wider. Away across the endless dead level of the prairieⒶemendation a black speck appears against the sky, and it is plain that it moves. Well, I should think so! In a second or two it becomes a horse and rider, rising and falling, rising and falling—sweeping toward us nearer and nearer—growing more and more distinct, more and more sharply defined—nearer and still nearer, and the flutter of the hoofs comes faintly to the ear—another instant a whoop and a hurrah from our upper deck, a wave of the rider’s hand, but no reply, and man and horse [begin page 52] burst past our excited faces, and go winging away like a belated fragment of a storm!

X

changing horses.Ⓐemendation

So sudden is it all, and so like a flash of unreal fancy, thatⒶemendation but for the flake of white foam left quivering and perishing on a mail-sackⒶemendation after the vision had flashed by and disappeared, we might have doubted whether we had seen any actual horse and man at all, maybeⒶemendation.Ⓐtextual note

We rattled through Scott’s Bluffs Pass, by and by. It was along here somewhere that we first came across genuine and unmistakable alkali water in the road, and we cordially hailed it as a first-class curiosity, and a thing to be mentioned with eclat in letters to the ignorant at home. This water gave the road a soapy appearance, and in many places the ground looked as if it had been whitewashed. I think the strange alkali water excited us as much as any wonder we had come upon yet, and I know we felt very complacent and conceited, and better satisfied with life after we had added it to our list of things which we had seen and some other people had not. In a small way we were the same sort of simpletons as those who climb unnecessarily the perilous peaks of Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn, and derive no pleasure from it except the reflection that it isn’t a common experience. But once in a while one of those parties trips and comes darting down the long mountain cragsⒶemendation in a sitting posture, making the crusted snow smoke behind him, flitting from bench to bench, and from terrace to terrace, jarring the earth where he strikes, and still glancing and flitting on again, [begin page 53] sticking an iceberg into himself every now and then, and tearing his clothes, snatching at things to save himself, taking hold of trees and fetching them along with him, roots and all, starting little rocks now and then, then big boulders, then acres of ice and snow and patches of forest, gathering and still gathering as he goes, adding and still adding to his massed and sweeping grandeur as he nears a three-thousand-footⒶemendation precipice, till at last he waves his hat magnificently and rides into eternity on the back of a raging and tossing avalanche!

X

riding the avalanche.

This is all very fine, but let us not be carried away by excitement, but ask calmly, how does this person feel about it in his cooler moments next day, with six or seven thousand feet of snow and stuff on top of him?

We crossed the sand hills near the scene of the Indian mail robbery and massacre of 1856, wherein the driver and conductor perished, and also all the passengers but one, it was supposed; but this must have been a mistake, for at different times afterward on the Pacific coast I was personally acquainted with a hundred and thirty-three or four people who were wounded during that massacre, [begin page 54] and barely escaped with their lives. There was no doubt of the truth of it—I had it from their own lips. One of these parties told me that he kept coming across arrow-heads in his system for nearly seven years after the massacre; and another of them told me that he was stuck so literally full of arrows that after the Indians were gone and he could raise up and examine himself, he could not restrain his tears, for his clothes were completely ruined.

The most trustworthy tradition avers, however, that only one man, a person named Babbitt, survived the massacre, and he was desperately woundedⒺexplanatory note. He dragged himself on his hands and knee (for one leg was broken) to a station several miles away. He did it during portions of two nights, lying concealed one day and part of another, and for more than forty hours suffering unimaginable anguish from hunger, thirst and bodily pain. The Indians robbed the coach of everything it contained, including quite an amount of treasure.